The cutest little girl I’d ever seen, in a white dress, denim jacket, and tiny cowboy hat, made her way to the middle, holding a microphone. She couldn’t have been older than six.
Cowgirls on horses circled her, holding the American flag.
She opened her mouth to sing the Star SpangledBanner, and every note soared out with perfect pitch–acapella with humble confidence. Her high note when she sang “free” floored me. Tears filled my eyes as I held my hand over my heart and couldn’t believe the talent I was witnessing. She held the final note out as long as she could, and the audience cheered loud and strong, just what she deserved.
“And with that, ladies and gentlemen, THE NATIONAL RODEO TOUR IS LIVE! Get ready to ride!”
I shook my head, wiping away an escaped tear, and forced myself to focus.
I had made it to the first rodeo, the moment I had been dreading since Mr. Sterling’s office. It was time to be the professional Allegra. No thinking about the smell of the dirt and animals, no wanting to hop on the fence and cheer just as loudly as the crowd, and no thoughts of the past.
Otherwise, I’d fail this project before I’d even start.
The cowboys behind me were warming up, throwing ropes, and stretching their muscles. Others were tucking in their shirts and putting on vests. Stock handlers were throwing animals into the chutes, making them angry, just the way they wanted them to be. Dirt was flying everywhere, between the ropes hitting the ground and the animals kicking their feet.
My white pants didn’t stand a chance. I looked down asthey turned from brilliant white to hazy brown.
A nearby horse whinnied and made my heart thump violently.
I grabbed the top of my shirt and shook it, trying to get myself some air. Memories were beginning to flash through my mind. The noises, the smells, the dirt under my shoes, nothing had changed at all.
The start of a new, incredibly loud song took me out of my thoughts. I brought myself back to the present and forced myself to watch the cowboys swing a rope around a fake cow. I thought back to my presentation.
Authenticity through storytelling. We needed videos of the real rodeo stars using Agri-Corp supplies and equipment. I took a few pictures and videos of them with my phone. We needed to hire a professional photographer and videographer as soon as possible.
“Settle into your seats, hold on to your hats, and get ready for eight seconds of pure adrenaline! We are going to kick off the competition with the bareback bronc ring! We’ve got a slate of cowboys ready to dance with the meanest horses in the state, but tonight, we’re starting with a fan favorite!”
I turned my attention to the chutes.
A cowboy was climbing on a black horse. I stared from behind the chaos. He was tall, even before he slid on a straw hat, his dark brown hair sticking out the back. He tucked his hand under the strap, giving it a few squeezes.
“Standing tall atop Chute Number Three, he’s an Oklahoma native-born with a rope in his hand and determination in his heart. He’s a third-generation cowboy, you better cheer him loud, cheer him proud, give it up for regionalchampion, Colton Nash!”
Nash? As in Dennis Nash? Suddenly, Dennis’ shirt made that much more sense.
The cowboy straightened himself, taking a long breath.
“He’s squarin’ off against a horse that makes even the toughest men scared,Wrecking Ball! Is Colton Nash ready? IS THEWRECKING BALLREADY? Are YOU ready, Glendale! Let’s get it!”
The cowboy nodded at his team, and the gates swung open.
Like a child, I couldn’t help but run to the fence and jump on the first bar. I leaned over as far as I could, desperate to see every second.
He lifted his legs against the horse’s shoulder and leaned back, his left hand held high. They weren’t kidding about the horse, though. It threw itself as hard and violently as it could, doing anything to get him off. The cowboy was strong, his body jerking brutally. His hat came flying off, landing at my feet below the gate.
His hair was flying. I could see the sweat land in the dirt. It was beautifully terrifying. The horse jumped and kicked all at once, but the cowboy held tight. The buzzer sounded, making me jump in surprise.
The pick-up men swung by as fast as they could and snagged the man off the bucking horse. He landed on the dirt gracefully and shook his hair away from his face, his back facing me as he raised his hands in celebration. The crowd got to their feet and screamed for him.
I had to admit, he deserved it. That was a tough ride, and he nailed it.
He came to a dead stop in the center of the arena, letting the dust settle around his boots as he took in the roar of the stands. Then, with a sharp, practiced precision, he tapped the top of his head twice with two fingers, a crisp, silent salute, before flicking the gesture toward the front row with an effortless grace that sent the crowd into a frenzy.
Gently stepping off the fence, I picked up the straw hat and brushed the dirt off it. The cowboy had turned around and was walking back to the chutes.
“Excuse me, Mr. Nash?”
“Interviews are after the section, ma’am. Give us just a minute,” he replied with a thick accent, not looking up.
